


into the endless night

by ninemoons42



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Character Turned Into Vampire, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vampire PWP, Vampire Sex, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: In the dead of the night, Jyn asks, again, and this time -- this time Cassian gives in.





	

She pulls on an extra layer of clothing, and the material is worn down to near softness but the material is also worn down to near translucency -- she can see the candle’s flame, feeble and flickering as it is, through the ragged blouse -- and it is late enough in the winter night that she is starting to wonder if she will ever get warm. She is starting to regret getting out of her bed, because at least the blankets worked just enough that she would not freeze during the long long hours before dawn.

But there is an appointment that she needs to keep.

The coat that she likes to pilfer has some kind of fur in the lining. It would have been nice to cuddle into, except that the owner of the coat likes to drown in the scent of artificial wood, which makes her scowl and wrinkle her nose and think of getting on her hands and knees to polish a scuffed floor -- it’s a chore, and she has to do it when it’s her turn, and she hates it. Partly that’s because the floor that she needs to polish never gets warm, not even in the summers, so when she’s done with the task her joints and her muscles are always pinched and painful and getting back to her feet is a chore.

Still, the coat is warm, and she can pull the collars up around her ears, and there is a hood, which she appreciates because the other kids have stolen her hat, again, and this is not a season to go without one.

Movement out of the corner of her eye as she sneaks down the back stairs. It’s the mirror, she knows that, and she hates to look at it. Hates to see herself in it. She is wiry but she is too thin. She is cold all the time. Her hair is taking forever to grow out of the awkwardly short hacking that had been inflicted on her by one of the oldest minders. Fresh bruises on her jawline, and chapped hands, and the tell-tale scar down the side of her throat: a long silvery-pink slash connecting the soft recessed spot behind her left ear to the too-prominent ridge of her collar bone.

Only a scant few inches of height separate the Jyn Erso of now from the Jyn Erso that had been left behind on the doorstep of this house -- that and the lack of tear-tracks on her cheeks. She had been sobbing all over the place, then.

Now she can’t even remember when it was she last cried.

Pilfered keys in her pocket. Silent steps on the threshold, and down the steps. 

Overhead, the moons swim in a starless sky, and the whistling piercing wind blows clouds across those blank bland faces far overhead.

When she gets to the grove -- a ragged circle of pitiful excuses for trees, which as usual had dropped their leaves before time -- he is already there. He is already waiting for her. He is standing in the center of the circle, and his hands are in his pockets, and he has no coat. 

There are no puffs of exhaled air around him.

And yet he moves, is indubitably able to respond to her, turning to pin her down with his depthless deep brown eyes. 

“You are cold,” he says, when she steps up to him. When she stands next to him and takes his hand.

“I’m always cold,” she says.

“I will steal a coat for you.”

She shakes her head. It’s not the first time he’s offered. “Not tonight.”

“Soon,” he says.

And, after a moment, “Do you want to walk?”

“Did you have a destination in mind?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer. Only moves. He doesn’t walk, Jyn thinks. He stalks. He has the tread of something that’s hunting for a meal. He is never wary; he walks like he will never lose his way. He walks like nothing can ever sneak up on him.

“Cassian Andor,” she says, just to say his name, and just for his response, which is this: he stops, right there on the road, and he turns toward her. Tilts his head in that inquisitive way of his.

“I am here, Jyn,” he says, slow and deliberate. His accent is -- it’s nearly unique, and that makes sense, because most of the people who had spoken with that accent lived so many hundreds of years ago, and he may well be the only one left now. “What do you wish of me?”

When he speaks, the light from the moons illuminates the corners of his mouth. And not just his mouth, but the sharp extended points of his teeth, too.

There are old words for what Cassian is, and Jyn only thinks of him as feral, and beautiful, and lethal.

He could tear her throat out with hardly any effort, and for some reason, he would rather she hold his cold bare hand.

Here, now, she doesn’t answer his question, not with words. 

She places her chilblained hands on his cheeks. Gently pulls him closer, close enough that she can breathe warmth onto his lips. “Kiss me,” she whispers.

“Jyn.” Not a warning. He sounds almost grateful.

And he kisses her so carefully, the points of his teeth pressing carefully into her mouth, and she makes a soft sound and leans into him. Here are his arms wrapping around her middle. She doesn’t know whether he’s supporting her, or leaning into her. She’s too focused on the dart of his tongue against hers, the warmth seeping into his lips from hers. His eyes are wide open, avid, and that’s why she doesn’t close her own eyes: because she wants to see him, as she kisses him.

His cold cold fingertips on her cheek. She leans into that touch, and then, suddenly, he pulls away.

The sound that comes out of her is -- thwarted. Yearning.

“Come,” Cassian whispers, and she lets him pick her up, lets him cradle her to his chest.

No pulse to hear, no heartbeat to listen to, when she presses her ear to the solidness of him.

She curls closer into him. One moment they’re on the sidewalk; the next, they are standing in a room. The lights of the town flicker on the horizon outside the single thrown-open window. 

Stone walls. The bed is far too large for one person. There is a fire in the hearth, banked down to hotly glowing coals.

She’s been here before. No need to ask questions. 

All he wants is a kiss -- he sweeps in and claims one, and she wraps her arms around his neck and hauls him in. She runs her fingers through his hair, soft silky flow of strands. He kisses like he’s staking a claim, and so she responds with the same ferocity. 

She wants to claim him every time. She wants to mark him as hers.

When he lays her onto the bed she only smiles, and presses herself against him, shoulder and chest and hip and knee and ankle. She wants to banish all the spaces between them.

His skin is cold against hers.

Here are his fingertips, brushing curious and gentle on her face. 

She meets his eyes, his strange eyes, and whispers, “Will you?”

“What do you want of me?”

“Not what I want, but what you want,” she says, and she can see the pupils of his eyes move with her words, expanding, till the vertical lines turn into wide-open darkness.

He is still staring at her when he takes her hand. When he kisses her at the pulse-point. The touch is so intimate that she shivers.

“You seem so willing to give yourself to me.”

“I know you won’t hurt me,” she says, simply.

“I am what I am,” he says. 

“I know what you are. And I am not afraid of you.”

“This I know to be true,” Cassian says. This time when he kisses her he carefully sinks his teeth into her lower lip. 

The bright sparking edge of almost-pain makes her groan, makes her clutch at his hair, and all he does is murmur, wordless, encouraging -- and she arches up, fighting to get closer.

Kiss after kiss. His mouth is hot, now, against the skin of her throat, against the corners of her eyes.

And she feels the mad leaping beat of her heart, as if it were trying to run away from her. The warmth that escapes her every time she breathes out. 

She can feel his teeth against her neck. Sharp points. Just a little more pressure. Hot and cold prickles against her skin, electric pleasure. “Please,” she says softly.

“You would give up all your days to me?” he asks. “You would do this for me?”

“All my days, all my nights,” she says. This is the truth that she carries around with her, like claws sunk into her heart. “You asked me to choose. I’m choosing.”

He pulls away, and she cries out, unfulfilled -- but her cry is cut short by the intensity of his gaze. His eyes locked on hers, filled with such sadness and such -- such need. 

“I need you,” she says. “And I know that you need me. You need to be -- not alone. So do I.”

“And you would be alone with me, if I do this thing. No other company. We would be a society of two. We would be set apart from everyone and everything.”

She nods, once, decisive. “Yes.”

Such expressions crossing his face, many of which she can’t describe or name -- but she does recognize that almost despairing hope of his. She can hear it in his words: “I do not want to be your captor. I could not stand it, if you became my prisoner.” 

“Would you let me be your captor?” she asks, turning his words against him. “Would you be my prisoner?”

She watches the shock dawn on his face.

She holds her breath.

He is all hard planes, solid and cold -- except for the shadows of hope in his eyes. That hope burns in him. 

She watches as that hope consumes him -- tastes it on his lips when he kisses her again, when he whispers, “How can I refuse, when you have asked, when you knew what I was and you asked -- the first time, I almost did -- ”

“Do it,” she says, and she doesn’t wonder at the savage strength in her own words. 

“Yes,” and he pulls away from her. Just enough that she can see the darkness in his eyes drain away, brown turning into wild gold. 

Just enough that she can see him bare his teeth. 

Anticipation burns hot in her skin -- and when he sinks his teeth into her throat, she cries out: his name, and “Please!” 

His tongue moves against her.

She shivers. Understands. He’s tasting her blood, again: the first time they met, so many years ago, she’d offered that precious red to him. Now, now he’s taking it from her, and she would laugh if she had the breath for it because she can hear how avidly he swallows, as though he were starving, as starved as she is now -- 

Cold, cold, cold, sinking deep beneath her skin.

The room is starting to spin around her. 

Her pulse, fluttering, growing weak.

As she fights to keep her eyes open -- Cassian pulls away. 

His mouth is wet and glistening and stained darkly.

Feebly she touches a fingertip to his chin -- and her reward is his smile. Her reward is the soft yielding sound of skin tearing open. Cassian, opening his own wrist with a finger turned into a sharp claw, and there, too, is liquid welling --

“Drink,” she hears him say, and he tilts his wrist, lets a drop fall onto her tongue -- 

Jyn screams. The first taste of him burns her, blazes through her -- _thirst_ is a terrifying compulsion howling down her nerves -- she latches on to him. Laps at the wound in his wrist -- this must be his blood, his life force -- 

She cannot drink quickly enough. She cannot fill the enormous gaping hole in her. She drinks and drinks and drinks, and hears Cassian laugh -- he is murmuring to her in a language she cannot understand -- 

She falls into that hole, drowns in the black of it -- drifts, mindless, until she feels white-hot _pain_ gripping her heart -- such a long long long moment of it, scourging her, and she screams, again --

Breath.

She can’t draw a breath.

But she opens her eyes and sits up, and -- she is undoubtedly still moving, still herself, but -- 

Jyn presses the heel of her hand to her chest.

Silence, within her skin.

Just like Cassian.

She turns, and looks at him, and -- she feels it. Feels an inescapable sense of _being like him_ \-- 

Jyn touches the tip of her tongue to her sharp teeth, and laughs -- and she seizes Cassian by the shoulders, pulls him to her, kisses him. His lips and tongue taste of blood, hers and his.

He pulls away long enough to hiss out a question, a demand, a request. Familiar words: “I need you.”

“Yes,” Jyn all but snarls.

Clothes fall away. She doesn’t need to think about freezing in the deep night. All that matters is skin against skin, his body moving over hers, wild and ferocious -- his mouth, his hands -- he’s shouldering her legs apart -- his hands gripping her hips as he sinks into her, and she lets out a yearning cry, needing more and more and more -- this time it’s hunger taking her over, hunger for him, ravenous desire --

She finds the strength to push him to the side -- he laughs as he topples onto his back -- she’s straddling him, driving herself down the entire length of him -- she pins his wrists to the bed and rides him, slap of his flesh against hers, and it’s the thought of night after night after night like this, the two of them falling headlong into that welcoming blinding need, that undoes her, the first of so so many -- 

Laughter, Cassian’s laughter, as the shock of her climax strikes.

Slowly she comes back to herself, to Cassian nipping at her fingertips. His teeth, sharp, against her skin.

She copies him: she takes one of his wrists in her hands, brings it to her mouth, and she can’t help but laugh, softly, when she sets her teeth gently against him.

His golden eyes, looking at her, rapt.

“All my nights are yours,” Jyn whispers.

“And all of mine are yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am also on tumblr [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


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